


take the fall and throw it all away

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-09
Updated: 2010-12-09
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: Fruit tinning moguls, voyeuristic intention, accidentally besotted Eames, and an Arthur who is very pointedly Not An Idiot.





	

"There is something of a catch," Ariadne says.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "There's always a catch," he replies. "What is it this time?"

"Well, you know how the research turned up that he's a bit of a voyeur?"

Arthur arches an eyebrow at her. Eames wants to cackle and rub his hands together—the exchange is truly spectacular. "Ariadne," Arthur says slowly, "I did the research. I know what was in it."

She grimaces. "Yes, yes, I know. My point is that—you did put together that he's a voyeur and he's gay, right?"

Arthur had not. Eames can tell by the way his mouth tightens at the corners, then purses meanly. Eames has already figured out what Ariadne is hedging around—he wonders when it'll dawn on Arthur.

On cue, Arthur turns to stare at him, horrified. Eames lifts his hand, wiggles the fingers. "Hello, hubby," he croons.

Arthur nearly knocks the chair over, trying to stand up. "Oh, for Christ's sake, I am not pretending to be married to him. No, Ariadne. Make him pretend with Yusuf. _I'll_ pretend with Yusuf. You can't make me share a house with him, Ariadne, please, not when he persists in wearing those shirts. I'll go blind."

"Yusuf is otherwise occupied," Ariadne replies primly, which Eames suspects is code for I'm the one shagging him and no-one else will ever come near him again.

Arthur's mouth purses again, but he rolls his eyes in a delightful display of exasperation. "Fine, I'll do it. But only if I can burn the shirt you're wearing right now," he says to Eames.

"Can you do the papers?" Ariadne asks. "I don't want to risk it, in case he goes digging."

Eames nods magnanimously. "Forge a marriage certificate that has mine and Arthur's names on it? Bit, I'll do _four_. Would you like to take my name, darling, or shall I take yours? You can't imagine how I'd like you to be Mrs—"

"If you finish that sentence with Mrs. Eames I will snap your fucking neck," Arthur snarls. Eames doesn't blanch.

"As you wish, hubby. Mr. and Mr. Aidan Arthur it is."

Arthur's cheeks turn pink. Eames stands, bowing slightly to Ariadne. "Anything else, Generalissimo? I've got paper and ink to search out." She waves him out with a slender, benevolent hand, and he watches the curve of her wrist. Yusuf is a lucky man. "Thank you, bit. Try not to have an apoplexy while I'm gone, Arthur. I'd hate to be a widow so early."

He approaches Arthur from the side, presses a dry kiss to his cheek. "Ta," he calls back, waggling his fingers above his head as he leaves Arthur to adjust.

 

 

 

 

 

They move into the house next door to the target—Jeremy Bradford, fruit tinning mogul, casual voyeur—two weeks later. The idea is to get him used to them, give him a bit of a show, perhaps incite a few natural dreams before they went into his head to steal the blueprints for a new, more efficient tinning process, patent not yet pending. Eames wonders, briefly, if all the jobs after the Fischer success are going to seem so banal.

Although—Arthur has agreed to share a bed with him, so it might not be so boring after all. Even if Arthur did draw up a contract of acceptable and unacceptable behavior and make Eames sign with his real signature.

(He's had the contract framed and hung on the wall next to the refrigerator, as a token of his attempt to be agreeable. Arthur has displayed no appreciation for it as yet, but Eames is hopeful. There is plenty of time.)

The job is scheduled for two months from now, with weekly check-ins with Ariadne and Yusuf. Eames has a sneaking suspicion a great deal of their alone time will be spent christening every corner of the warehouse, but he can hardly blame them for making the most of the opportunity. A pity Arthur disapproves of workplace entanglements.

Eames sighs, putting on the kiss the cook apron he hung on the pantry door. Might as well be neighborly, he thinks, and pulls a casserole dish from the drawer under the oven. Maybe his cooking will woo Arthur, as well.

 

 

 

 

 

For weeks they pretend to be married. Arthur adopts the habit of hogging the remote; Eames always steals the covers. They keep up the practice of kissing in front of a window at least four times a day—and Arthur rewards him with more, when he's good (which makes him feel vaguely like a puppy but Arthur is a very good kisser, so Eames will take what he can get). He cooks, Arthur cleans, they watch bad telly, they canoodle on the sofa even after Bradford's Venetian blinds have twitched for the last time. They laugh.

Eames is surprised by that, by how often Arthur laughs. Small heh-heh chuckles at the most inane of things, sarcastic smirks at Eames' off-handed quips, one particularly memorable deep belly laugh at the irony of catching Eames practicing his ladies' walk in their enormous closet. Arthur laughs, and Eames laughs, and they look at each other, and Eames always— _always_ ¬—has to catch his breath. (If Arthur sometimes kisses him a little sweeter, after, well, that's neither here nor there.)

The truth is, he really feels married. This job could take years, for all Eames could care. Decades. Eternity.

Shit.

His fork clatters to the plate, splashing meat sauce onto his shirt. Arthur looks over at him—"Go back to your dinner, darling, I just dropped it. I'll change."

"Put the shirt in the washer, I'll take care of it when I'm done."

Eames is glad Arthur can't see him wince. He's never done this before, never fallen so deep into the play that he's not sure he'll ever come out. Before, it had been simple—borne of proximity, something to pass the time. Now, he thinks he might actually be in love.

He wants to be sick.

He very nearly is sick, all over the bathroom linoleum, splashing water on his face in an effort to keep his composure. He stares hard at himself in the mirror, trying to work out where this utterly revolting feeling has come from.

And all right, he's been attracted to Arthur for as long as they've known each other; that's hardly a secret to anyone. And all right, talent and competence and confidence are all things Arthur has in spades, all things Eames respects a great deal, and respect is the foundation of love, according to his aging, old-fashioned father.

The idea that Lord Eames, Earl of __________ could be right about anything is terrifying in itself, and Eames feels terribly like retching again. But it's true, and he is in love with Arthur, and he hates it all so much, because there is nothing so infuriating as being shown precisely what it is one wants and then having it taken away, like displaying a toy to a child before whisking it off for another child's use. He suddenly very desperately despises everything, and just as suddenly knows the only way he will possibly survive this whole godforsaken enterprise.

The key, of course, is to pretend there's nothing wrong. The job is over in a few weeks; then the real work can begin. Eames sets his jaw, wipes the mirror, and pulls a new shirt from the closet, settling the domestic mask over his face as he does. He leaves the soiled shirt on the washer, dabs the splatter of sauce with detergent, returns to the kitchen folding back his cuffs.

He cannot resist dropping a kiss on the back of Arthur's head as he goes. Arthur tenses slightly, but says nothing, instead casting his gaze on Eames' new shirt with frank approval. "You know," Arthur says, "If the only thing we get out of this ridiculous enterprise is an improvement in your taste in clothes, I think I'll be perfectly happy."

"That's all you need to make you happy?" Eames replies, sitting heavily in his chair. "If I'd only known—I shall go back to hideous combinations forthwith. I shudder to think what the world would be like without that edge of je ne sais quoi you project."

Arthur glares; Eames grins. "I take it back," Arthur says. "I'll need the money out of this job, too. It's compensation for having to live with you." He pushes his plate away.

"I love you too, darling," Eames quips back, and there it is, now it's out.

Arthur just rolls his eyes. "Done?" Eames passes over his plate without protest, though he wasn't in fact, through, and crosses and uncrosses his legs under the table, unsure he can speak again for at least a few moments. He feels Arthur's hand on his elbow. "Up," Arthur says. "He's watching."

Eames flicks a glance at the window, surreptitiously, and sees the curtains moving, a ghost audience. "So he is," he agrees, and takes Arthur's face in his hands, and presses a kiss to his mouth.

He means it to be sweet, brief, comfortable—satisfactory to Bradford and over in a moment. He means to relinquish his hold on Arthur almost as soon as he takes it. He means it to be as every other kiss has been, just business. He has very good intentions, all told, going in.

But Arthur makes a small sort of querying sound in the back of his throat and presses more insistently into Eames' mouth, his hands settling easily on Eames' hips, and Eames is a man who has just come to terms with an unsettling kind of personal truth, and he has Arthur more or less where he wants him so it's easy, really, to open his mouth and lick right in. And Arthur doesn't push away, although he could; Arthur doesn't resist, Arthur doesn't stop him. In fact, Arthur grips _harder_ at his belt loops, bringing their hips together, and opens his own mouth to Eames, and by god if this was ever a show it's got truth in it now, if the press of Arthur's groin against his own is anything to go by.

Eames makes his own strangled sound and lets go of Arthur's face, licking his lips and swallowing. "Sorry," he breathes, trying to calm the frantic thudding of his heart. "Little carried away, I suppose. Won't happen again." His voice is quiet, their mouths still dangerously close together, and he nearly kisses Arthur again before smoothing Arthur's collar, instead, before wandering past him and out to the office.

There's no question about it. He's totally screwed.

 

 

 

 

 

For all of Eames' individual and constant angst, the job goes off beautifully. Jeremy is invited over for dinner, sedated over cocktails, and his secrets are extracted before dessert. Eames is a little wary of how well it goes—but then Jeremy of the dreamstate, uninhibited thanks to the alcohol, asks them to kiss, and that's an expected event but still makes him fidgety. Arthur, unfazed as ever, draws hold of Eames' lapel and pulls him forward, catching his lips in what Eames assumes will be the most perfunctory of kisses.

Perfunctory, it's not.

Eames very nearly blacks out.

Arthur kisses, and kisses, and kisses, like he's dying for it, like Eames is the goddamn cup of life, and keeps kissing, opening his mouth without preamble. He's wrinkling Eames' shirt, he's grasping so hard, and Eames is holding onto his waist, going white-knuckled with it, still trying to process that Arthur's tongue is in his mouth, licking up into him, neat and precise. And Arthur's still kissing him when his brain catches up with what's happening, and Eames pulls him closer, dizzy and sighing, and Arthur presses forward with one more insistent kiss before pulling away, the quickness of his breathing the only sign that he's just been kissing Eames within an inch of his life.

Eames blinks. Jeremy's grinning—Eames can see it out of the corner of his eye, though he's still staring, stricken, at Arthur, unsure exactly of what just happened, wondering if it's just because he's head over fucking heels that it felt like more than just business this time. "You two must really love each other," Jeremy says, sounding unbelievably pleased with himself, and as they all kick out and come to their senses around the dinner table, Eames never breaks Arthur's gaze, wondering if they'll ever be able to work civilly together again.

They move out of their honeymoon house before dawn.

Eames is gone when daylight breaks.

 

 

 

 

 

This, at least, is the usual—they get paid, Eames leaves, Arthur does not follow. They'll see each other again eventually, he figures; he's never been hard for Arthur to find, and there's always another job on the horizon. So he leaves, and he waits, and he wonders if time is actually supposed to make him think about Arthur more than he ever has before. And it's all very comfortable, as far as misery goes, except for the unbelievable fact that what Eames misses the most are all the parts of Arthur he didn't expect to miss at all.

He misses having someone to laugh with, someone to talk to, someone else who likes to mock terrible movies. He misses the smallest things, the weight of shared air, the ages old dinner arguments, the bandying of kitchen duty, the banter of everyday speech. He misses being married.

Goddamn, he misses _Arthur_.

He thinks about getting a cat. He also thinks about ordering a wife, but the cat seems more feasible, and less likely to incite a rage if for some reason Arthur decides to find him.

He stares at Arthur's number in his phone.

Then, of course, he feels like a girl, and wanks in the living room out of acute self-loathing and petulant defiance.

It figures, that Arthur knocks two minutes after he's finished.

Eames stands at the door, flushed, glassy-eyed, and stares.

Arthur stares right back. And then—then, Arthur smiles, and it's like they never left. "May I come in?"

"I wish you would. Hungry?"

"Starving."

"I was waiting for company to try a Thai green curry recipe—spicy all right?"

"You know me," Arthur says, unbuttoning his jacket and loosening his tie, and Eames thinks—yes, I do, and it's as simple as that, sometimes, and he sets Arthur to slicing the peppers.

It really is as simple as that, sometimes. They cook dinner, have a glass of wine, kick each other under the table, and take the rest of the bottle to the living room to watch the news. Eames is almost afraid to ask what happens next, to question it at all—he's just reveling in the moment, drinking in the seconds, tucking them away for future remembrance. But the news finally ends, and it is getting late, and he doesn't want to push too hard but the question is there waiting for him and he might as well get an answer, now or never.

"You staying?" He wants it to be casual, unimportant. He sounds a little like he's sixteen, instead.

Arthur looks over at him with the look on his face he usually reserves for particularly trying idiots, and Eames nearly bites through his bottom lip in anticipation. "Of course I'm staying," he finally says, and the sound Eames makes is truly undignified, and then they're leaning towards each other and their mouths are meeting and there is nobody watching, no show to put on, just Arthur and Eames and the quieting drone of the television, and it has never, ever felt so easy.

Arthur pushes him back into the arm of the sofa, straddling his thigh and cupping his jaw in one hand while the other flicks open Eames' buttons—something that should not, by all rights, be as attractive as it is, but in the circumstances makes his brain short-circuit a little. He arches into it, each sound he makes more undignified than the last, running his hands through Arthur's hair and working open his mouth without any of the restraint he tried to show on the job, letting it all fall loose around them. "You're an idiot," Arthur whispers into his mouth, calm as you please.

"So I've gathered," Eames replies, untucking Arthur's shirt and rucking it up as he spreads his fingers over Arthur's skin. "Just think of all the inventive sex we could have been having, if I had cottoned on quicker."

"I _have_ been thinking of all the sex we could have been having," Arthur replies, biting Eames' lower lip. "Why do you think I'm here, hmm? Somebody had to man up."

"In my defence," Eames gasps, because Arthur's got a hand down his pants, "you did make me take your name. I'm old-fashioned, that _means_ something."

"It means something all right," Arthur pants, twisting, and Eames sees stars. "It means I want to fuck you six ways to Sunday and I want a fucking cuddle after, asshole."

And yes, Eames thinks it—he is utterly, incredibly, completely in love. "Bedroom," he says.

"Best idea you've had since the Thai green curry," Arthur replies. "Up you get."

"A little late for that," Eames quips. "You might want to grab your—er, supplies, if you've brought them. I wasn't expecting company."

Arthur stares; Eames shrugs. Arthur presses his hands to the sides of Eames' face and kisses him, hard, then jerks him up and spins him in the direction of the bedroom. "Go— _go_ ," he pants, and if that's how Arthur is always going to respond to monogamy Eames is never suggesting a threesome ever _ever_ , and he goes.

Because sometimes it really is just that simple. Sometimes, you just get fucked six ways to Sunday and have a cuddle, after. Sometimes you steal the covers and never get to choose what's on the television, and have to take turns doing the dishes because nobody likes it enough to volunteer. Sometimes you get a cat together and sometimes you wank in the living room to be a nuisance and sometimes, sometimes, you just don't bother getting rid of your forged marriage certificates, all four copies, because it's just easier that way.

Some things should be this easy.


End file.
